“Got a white Christmas this year, though. Made everyone happy.”
“Yes.” She hung her coat on a wall peg, opened the outside front door, and shook off her cowboy hat. After she closed the door, she stamped her boots, untying and removing them. Her stocking feet felt the coolness of the uneven-width heart pine floorboards.
“Someone needs to darn her socks.” Shaker pointed to a hole in her left sock.
She sighed.“I haven’t bought new clothes in years. Jeans, hunt clothing, but no real clothes. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I actually like clothes.”
“No time to shop.” He put on a pot of hot water. She joined him in the small kitchen.
Shaker, a tidy person, liked to entertain. His wife, who had left him four years earlier, had always pulled social events together. When they were together, the dependency was regularly filled with people and laughter. But Mindy, much as she admired her husband, found the long hours of a huntsman and his total dedication to the hounds displeasing. She needed more attention and more money. She left him for a well-off man in Fauquier County. By all reports, she was happy. She was also driving a BMW 540i.
Shaker put out a box of cookies. They sat down.
Sister reached for a sugar cookie.“Before I forget, neither Alice nor Lorraine is particularly a strong woman. Once the snow stops, we ought to go over there tomorrow and see what needs to be done. You can fire up Alice’s tractor and plow. I’ll feed the chickens and dig out the house.”
Alice Ramy studied at Virginia Tech three days a week. She rented and shared her farm with Lorraine Rasmussen and her daughter, Sari—a good arrangement for all.
“Sure. Call and see if they need anything. We can bring it over.”
“Okay.” She drank her hot chocolate, happy that Shaker hadn’t figured out her hidden agenda concerning Lorraine Rasmussen.
She loved the concreteness of men, particularly Shaker. However, they often missed subtle emotional signs. He was lonely. A good man, he would never be rich or even middle class. But Shaker loved what he did, and he was good at it. That counted for a lot in life.
With the right kind of setting and a little help from friends, Shaker might discover Lorraine Rasmussen and vice versa.
CHAPTER 4
The snow still fell in the Sunday twilight, shrouding the imposing stone pillars to Beasley Hall. The tusks of the two exquisitely rendered bronze boars, now covered in white, glowed even fiercer in the bluish light.
These boars had cost $25,000 apiece when Crawford Howard purchased them eleven years ago. An arrival from Indiana, Crawford made a fortune building strip malls throughout his home state. Upon visiting Monticello in his early thirties, he’d fallen in love with central Virginia. Once he made enough to feel truly secure, he moved to the area and promptly became a member of the Jefferson Hunt. This was complicated somewhat by the fact that he couldn’t ride the hair of a horse. Determination and ego kept him taking lessons foryears until he finally edged up from the Hilltoppers to First Flight. Not everyone in First Flight welcomed his graduation, for, although he could usually keep the horse between his legs, he knew precious little about foxhunting.
A man of many vanities, he endured liposuction, a face-lift, and hair plugs. Yet, Crawford had good qualities. Highly intelligent, he was not bound by the Virginia Code: a complex ritual of behavior rivaling the eighteenth-century courts of Europe. Upon reflection, Virginia was still in the eighteenth century. Of all the southern states, Virginia and South Carolina were the strongest in their labyrinthine codes. Crawford thought outside the code, and sometimes even his good ideas and insights ruffled feathers. Sister Jane, herself a product of the code, squelched her distaste and listened to him. Being a good leader, Sister knew you used the material at hand.
At first Crawford couldn’t stand Jane Arnold. She could ride like a demon. He hated being physically shown up by a woman, especially one nearly twenty-five years older than himself. She circled around problems and people instead of striking straight to the heart of the issue, which drove him crazy. Unless she was dealing with someone extremely close to her, Sister took her time, stepped lightly, and tried to help antagonists save face. In time, he learned to respect her methods just as she learned to respect his.
This gave rise to Crawford’s greatest vanity; he desperately wanted to be joint-master. It was apparent to all that Sister must take on a joint-master to train for the day when she would be riding with the Lord. She was dragging her heels.
Crawford thought Jane Arnold did not wish to share power. Well, yes and no. She needed the right person, one whom the other members—all of them strong people and opinionated—would respect. She also wanted a true hunting master.
Putting MFH behind a man or woman’s name could turn him or her into an insufferable grandee. Crawford could be plenty insufferable as it was.
His wealth was a crowbar. Sooner or later he would pry open the old girl. He was counting on it. It fed his drive, shored up his patience, propelled him to build an expensive showgrounds with a grandstand on acres donated by the Bancrofts, who had even more money than Crawford, which irked him. In a flash of brilliance, he named the grandstand in honor of Raymond Sr., and the ring—a beautiful thing with perfect footing—after Ray Jr.
He didn’t think of this himself. His wife, Marty, helped him. The idle town gossips said she was with him because of his money. Anyone who doesn’t comprehend the importance of money is a born fool, but Marty, during a public affair of Crawford’s and their separation, had acted with dignity. In the end, this meant more to Crawford than anything else. She could have stuck him up, kept them in court for years, and curdled whatever joy might be possible with someone else. She did not upbraid him for his affair. In fact, she never mentioned it. The Virginians, in their overweening pride, felt that Marty Howard acted as “a lady of quality”—which is to say, as a Virginian. Martywasa lady of quality. Apparently, they breed them in Indiana as well as Virginia.
Marty actually loved Crawford. She knew underneath his terrible need for show and power, and his fear of losing his sex appeal, beat the heart of a good man. His ways might offend, but he truly was on the side of the angels. She had loved him from the day they met at the University of Indiana in Bloomington.
Without recognizing it, Crawford gave clues to his inner life. When Sister Jane first beheld the imposing, ferocious boars atop the equally imposing pillars, she said to Crawford,“The Duke of Gloucester, later Richard III, had just such boars as his emblem.”
Before she could continue, Crawford jumped in,“1483 to 1485. Yes, he’s a bit of a hero of mine because I believe he was faithful to the crown. When his brother, King Edward, died, the Woodvilles tried to take over England. They were commoners—grasping, greedy—but, well, Edward had to have her. And by God, she was queen. Civil war seemed unavoidable, even though Richard was named protector until the eldest son, just a boy, could inherit. He was an able administrator, a good warlord. From his estate at Middleham in Yorkshire, he was forever driving back the Scots. He was a strong king, but so many suspicions were planted against him, many by the Woodvilles and their supporters.”
Sister, upon hearing this, was not surprised that Crawford knew history. She smiled.“I always thought his biggest mistake was not in killing the princes in the Tower, if indeed he did, but in dispensing with the Earl of Warwick, his cousin. Richard Neville was more than a cousin, he was Richard III’s right arm.”
This discussion and recognition built the first bridge between Sister and Crawford. Impressed that she read history and had a real sense of the swing of power, he wondered whether perhaps there was more to her than a hard-riding, handsome old broad.